


To Trust the Mask Which Snarls

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, F/M, Identity Issues, Madeleine Era, Rape Roleplay, Rule 63, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Valjean/Javert gift exchange; the prompt was: (fem!Javert, consensual rape-play, double penetration, humiliation) Every night before going on patrol, Monsieur Madeleine puts a small toy into Javert with the promise to take care of her when she comes back in the morning. One of these nights, she gets “attacked” by a “criminal” (who is actually Madeleine in disguise, which they /both/ know), and they play out a scene in which the evil criminal humiliates and takes the poor police officer against her will (even though they are actually both totally into it).</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Trust the Mask Which Snarls

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to voksen for looking it over; all remaining mistakes are mine.

“One final note, Monsieur le Maire, if you will.” Javert does not check M. Madeleine’s reaction, electing instead to focus on the window, where she can see the sun’s slow progress through the sky. Soon it will be dark; there will only be the shivering of lanterns and the dim twinkling of the stars. “There is a violent criminal who has been plaguing the city for almost a month—I believe I have mentioned him to you before.”

He does not speak for a moment, and in the silence a heat suffuses through Javert, a dull pounding between her legs. “You have,” he says, finally.

“I have reason to believe,” she continues, brisk, “that he will be at large tonight, and while I intend to finally catch him and put the city at ease, I advise you to avoid the streets at night until then.”

“Thank you,” he says, “but that sounds very dangerous.”

“Please, Monsieur, spare me your concern.”

“Yes, well—” He hesitates, and Javert glances at him, is aware in that glance of the tumult within him without being aware of its source, knowing only that she has caused it and will again. “Well,” he says, “I would rather know that my inspector will still be here in the morning, all the same.”

There is the sound of a drawer being opened, a shuffling of paper. Javert shuts her eyes. “M. le Maire, I can assure you I have dealt with much worse men than him.” She tries not to dwell on those memories, those men who toiled under her, the convicts who were nearly monsters. When she opens her eyes, she is almost tricked into believing she is still in the bagne, with a convict gazing at her over the desk instead of the mayor. Her gut twists.

“Nevertheless,” M. Madeleine says, with a magistrate’s soft tones, “I would feel better knowing you had some incentive to take care of yourself.” He clears his throat and squares his shoulders. “Come here, please.” 

She does not hesitate to comply—she is, after all, entrusted to his discretion, and there is nothing wrong with pleasure derived from actions done for her superiors. Javert enjoys the hunt; she too enjoys this exchange of trust, the acquiescence that proves that she would follow her superiors to any lengths and trust that they, in their wisdom, will always err on the side of justice.

M. Madeleine’s broad hand slips along her cheek, down her neck. It skates down her chest and stomach, a faint contact that leaves her burning and tense. In his other hand he clasps something smooth. Her body is already braced for it, for him. When his hand pauses at her trousers, she brushes it away and undoes the buttons—Javert has nothing to hide from him, and he doesn’t falter at the sight of her pale thighs and the shallow curve of her labia.

He presses a hand between her legs. “I’ll be here in the morning,” he says. “When you’re finished.”

“Yes, Monsieur.” It seems important, somehow, to keep her back straight and head high as he carefully parts her folds, as if that will preserve her dignity. She cannot quite look into his face as he slides his fingers along her clit—it’s just a teasing, she knows, but that doesn’t stop anticipation from lancing her.

“You’re sure that he will show himself tonight?”

Javert swallows. “I am.”

M. Madeleine leans into her, so close that she can feel his breath against her jaw; he maneuvers his hand so the object in his hand can nudge against her slit, and she clenches between her legs. He presses a kiss to her jaw. Then, slow, too slow, he presses the head of the glass into her, parting her; he guides it in, inch by inch, until it’s buried in her. His hand drifts away, brushing again at her clit, palming at the inside of her thigh. Javert forces herself to breathe as if nothing has changed.

M. Madeleine steps away, then turns his back to her. He folds his hands behind his back. “Be careful,” he says.

“Of course, M. le Maire.” She fixes her trousers and adjusts her coat, her collar, though she doubts he has done much to put her in disarray. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, I think so. You may return to your post, Inspector.”

She bows, though it is not deference that moves her.

*

The town is hushed at this hour, like a held breath. Javert’s mind has been singularly occupied with her route, her body singularly occupied with the thickness inside her. She has not seen another living soul for the past hour save for a few tired prostitutes lounging by the docks, who are aware that they are only safe if they do not bother her; all respectable citizens are asleep, or at least tucked away in their dark houses. Everything has the strangeness of a pantomime with none of the catharsis; as Javert turns to the station-house to write up her report, she can feel the darkness creeping under her skin as if it can take root there, as if the hours after midnight could become personified within her and the night not only hides her desires but embodies them.

She is tense, listening for any suspicious sounds, keeping an eye on every shadow, but nothing is amiss. Her heart ticks steadily between her legs. When she ducks into the station house and sits at her desk, she gasps at the new angle of the glass, then guiltily glances around the empty station. The gendarmes on duty are, thankfully, spilled through the streets.

Javert allows herself a few slow rocks of her hips, then goes very still, bends low over her work, and does not move again for half an hour. By the time she has finished, a gendarme has come into the station; they exchange brusque nods. It is after three, and the night is settled and cool. Her eyes itch with exhaustion.

Though she is finished with her work, she takes to the streets as if she is going along her usual route. It seems the very air is still, without even the interruption of a breeze. The town is empty.

Soon, she thinks. He will show himself soon, now. The anticipation runs through her whole body, grips her between her legs; she wonders how she was able to focus just a quarter hour ago, how she wasn’t consumed by this terrible want inside of her. Javert’s control is slipping; it is only a matter of time before it wears away—in the meantime, she has her patience.

For a quarter of an hour, Javert walks along Montreuil sur Mer’s quiet streets, giving no outward sign of her thoughts. To any bystander, she would simply be the fierce, composed monsieur l’Inspecteur who watches over the town. No one would guess at her indignity.

A shadow shifts in her periphery—then she is wrenched back and her mouth covered with a broad hand. Something sharp spikes in her chest and she begins to struggle, but the man is strong, his body pressed against her, and he wraps one powerful arm under her chest and begins to haul her back toward an alleyway. His breath is hot at her ear—she kicks out against him, scratches at his woolen coat—but it is useless against him, and soon she has been forced into an alcove that is hidden in shadow.

The criminal presses his body against hers until she is flat against the wall, and then he stills against her. She can feel his cock at her hip, half-hard, curving against her.

“Shh,” he says into her ear. He takes Javert by the wrist, not quite rough but inescapable nonetheless, and pins her arm between them. “Don’t struggle.” His hand slips away from her mouth, down her neck, her chest, her stomach.

“Stop,” Javert says. She does not know if she is afraid or pretending. The skin of her neck remembers the callouses of his hands even as he palms down her stomach. “Stop—unhand me!”

He presses his hand between her legs, and she jerks at the contact, all the stimulation since this afternoon rushing through her in a wave of arousal. Javert bites her lip—it might be easier to accept this if he talked, but he won’t, she knows, or will very little, and it is that silence which makes him all the more a criminal to her.

When he begins to work open her trousers, Javert bucks against him—she struggles again, more ferociously this time, and her free hand finds his hair and yanks until he groans in pain. He wrests her away from the wall and, hardly struggling with her at all, pushes her to her hands and knees—he presses a hand to the back of her neck and scrapes her face against the ground.

It could be anyone doing this to her—but it’s not. She knows whose hand yanks down her trousers, but that does not change the shame that burns her face. “No,” she says, “no, stop, I—please—”

His hand slips between her thighs and presses at her cunt, palming along the pliant folds; he drags his calloused fingers across her clit. His other hand takes her by the hair and twists, pulling until it hurts, until pinpricks of pain run through her and straight to her groin.

“What’s this?” he asks, when his fingers find the hot base of the glass toy inside of her. “What kind of woman are you?” He grips it and twists it inside of her; she can’t help but gasp, and bites down on her moan. He rocks the glass within her, steady and sure, until she is slick and shaking with desire.

“Stop it.” Javert isn’t sure she can say anything else at this point, but the man’s strong hand slides from her hair and covers her mouth, and he slips the wet glass out of her. She whimpers and bucks her hips, wanting it back, wanting him, wishing she didn’t. He presses the slick toy against her ass, and then, without warning, pushes it inside of her; her thighs clench and she groans into his hand.

Then there is the sound of cloth shuffling, and his cock is hot between her legs, grinding against her folds, the head of it slick at her clitoris. He pushes into her with one rough thrust—and though it’s fruitless, she struggles against the intrusion. Without pausing to let her adjust, he begins to fuck her, rough and quick; he fumbles with the toy and fucks her gracelessly with that, too, as he pounds into her, and the stimulation is too much—Javert cannot want this, cannot want to be taken and used like this; she is more than this; she is respectable and formidable and she has never wanted to submit, not to this breed of man.

None of that matters, here. He bends down and brushes his lips against her ear. “You like this, don’t you?” he asks, and it is a touch too plaintive to be cruel, but it doesn’t matter; the words are close enough. “If I’d known the inspector of this town is just a whore, I would’ve had you sooner.”

His thrusts begin to become erratic—Javert reaches back and finds his hair again and grips it tightly, yanks him over her back so he can scrape his teeth along her neck—she is grateful for his hand over her mouth, because it keeps her from confessing her sins, from admitting how badly she wants this though it wounds her.

Javert comes before he does, her thighs shaking, her cunt tightening around him, and he murmurs into her ear as she does, tells her that he should tell the mayor that he had a whore for an inspector, that he should have her turned out—and when her orgasm crests, she is left shaking and breathless.

His thrusts slow down, become steady; it is not until she has stopped shaking that he stills, though his cock is fully erect inside of her and he has not spent. He slides out of her and gives her queue one final tug.

“I suggest you pull yourself together,” he says. “People will be waking, soon. You do not want them to see you like this.”

*

Javert knocks on M. Madeleine's office, composed save for a red scrape on her cheek.

"Come in," he says.

Javert steps inside and shuts the door with a snap behind her. M. Madeleine is sitting behind his desk, a few candles lit though the early-morning sun has started to peer through the open window. There are dark bags under his eyes, and there is something skittish about the way he shifts a few papers on his desk, but he gazes at her without flinching.

"Did you find him?" he asks.

"He escaped."

M. Madeleine stands, blows out the candles—without their flickering light, the room is darker than Javert expected—and crosses the room until he is close, until the warmth from his body is apparent through Javert's coat. He brushes at the scrape with his thumb. "Did he hurt you?" he asks, very gently.

"Do not be absurd," she says.

M. Madeleine slides his hands down her chest, cupping her breasts—he thumbs at her nipples, then works his way down until he can safely undo her trousers.

She has taken from him, and now she gives—he asks that she never let him ruin her, and in the mornings after he is always frustratingly kind to her, generous with his tongue as if he is seeking benediction for sins he never committed and might find mercy in her flushed skin. Javert tolerates it, though it is in some ways worse than the brute strength of him in the dark.

"Javert," he says, working his hand into her trousers, brushing the tips of his fingers at her wet folds, close to her clit without touching it, "if—he had hurt you, I would want you to tell me."

Javert jerks her hips forward. She would grab him by the shoulders, but it seems too familiar a thing though his hand is pressed against her. M. Madeleine bows his head and presses a kiss to the crook of her shoulder through her coat. His hand slides further, slips along her clit and brushes at her slit. He pauses, there. Javert shudders. She hopes he will say something about the change, that he will shame her for her failure, but he wordlessly moves his hand from her cunt to her ass and presses at the glass still buried inside of her.

Before he can do more, Javert kneels, remembering his stiff cock inside of her and the way it stood against his trousers as he backed away from her. He is not hard as she mouths at him, but she has taken him like this before and has learned how to wield her tongue against the head of his prick—and if she is like this, she can still pretend that they wear different faces, that the faint pain in her cheek is only a precursor to what he might do to her. M. Madeleine has had the good grace to indulge her—she does not need his hands or mouth again, and should she want his cock she need only ask for it.

M. Madeleine's breath hitches as she palms his cock through his trousers, working at it with her mouth and hands until it has begun to stiffen against the fabric. All is fine, she thinks, until his fingertips brush at her cheek, a feather-touch that makes her shudder and clench between her legs. Javert tries to ignore the way it swoops through her.

It's not until he's fully erect, panting, grasping at the edge of his desk, that Javert finally works at the fall of his trousers. She guides his cock out and pauses a moment to take in the sight of it, flushed and hard, come beading on the head—and then she makes the mistake of glancing into M. Madeleine's face, and freezes.

"M. le Maire? What is it?"

He shakes his head and smiles, but it does little to make her forget the way he was looking at her, as if she was rending him with her touch—the skin on the back of her neck prickles, remembering his calloused hand. It is not right. It is not _fair,_ not when they are settling back into their proper roles and she is free to submit to the man she should instead of the man she has wanted to—that he would remind her so suddenly of her suspicions, when just a moment ago he gently touched her and kissed at her shoulder, sends a hot spike of anger through her.

Javert stands. There is a curious buzzing at her face and hands, a prickling anger. She takes M. Madeleine's cravat loosely in her hand. He is still smiling, but it is strained, now. "Well," she says, sharp and low, speaking to him with her affected voice without meaning to. "Well, M. le Maire, you've seen how I've failed to protect Montreuil. Won't you do something about that? Monsieur?"

"You haven't." He fumbles between her legs a moment, his hands betraying his nerves where his voice has not. "You will find him again and take him back to prison."

 _Back to prison_ —those words are like struck flint—but before the spark from them can sting Javert, M. Madeleine pushes two of his thick fingers inside of her, sure and quick, and the anger is driven out of her. He takes her by the shoulder and turns her against the desk; M. Madeleine removes his hand from her long enough to turn Javert about and bend her over the desk, and then his rough fingers are back inside of her. No—no, she's been a fool, she has trusted him this long, and there is nothing of the sea or misery on him as he bends down to trace his lips along her ear, only a deep perfume that reminds Javert of the woods and clean linen.

"Let me be kind," he says, "please—"

And he is nothing like the man who took her in the alley; he wore a mask for her which snarled, but always underneath there has been a gentleman's hesitant smile—and so Javert submits herself to trust.


End file.
